


head full of doubt

by bleedcolor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Drama, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV Severus Snape, Romance, Snarry-A-Thon19, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-16 02:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18682534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedcolor/pseuds/bleedcolor
Summary: Severus spends his days methodically searching empty rooms, from the shadowy winding halls of the dungeon to the top of each spindly tower, and finds nothing more than the languishing splendor of places once well-loved, now abandoned to the vagaries of time and neglect.





	head full of doubt

**Author's Note:**

> So right around the time I should have been knuckling down on finishing this story, you know for deadline reasons, life got a little crazy, as it does. This fic wouldn’t have come to fruition without the cheerleading of **ladyshadowphyre** and **strypgia** , the wonderful mods for allowing me an extension, or the songs “Happier” by Marshmello and “Monster You Made Me” by Pop Evil on repeat. I think it went a little sideways from the prompt and doesn’t follow the traditional fairytale, but I feel like I could write this prompt again in at least 3 more ways, so if you don’t enjoy this version maybe I’ll revisit it some day. I’d certainly like to. Still, I hope you **do** enjoy it. 
> 
> Title from “Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise” by The Avett Brothers.
> 
> Prompt: 79: A retelling of Beauty and the Beast but with Snarry. It would be interesting if Harry was the beast and Snape was beauty.
> 
> ETA (7/5/19), This _lovely_ moodboard by the extremely talented LikeLightinGlass:

The castle is empty.

Severus wakes to an all-consuming agony that radiates from his throat and blooms through the rest of his body and he doesn’t know exactly how long it is before he’s aware of more than pain-- days, maybe weeks. Time is lost to him in the beginning, replaced by unending moments of aching torment and indefinable eternities of blissful darkness.

And so, at first, Severus does not notice the quiet or the way it begins to slowly erode his nerves. At first, when he opens his eyes and manages to take stock of his surroundings-- a clean, airy room with two rows of beds that are all empty apart from his own-- the silence seems almost like a balm, loosening some tightness that he wasn’t aware he was carrying. Oddly, as he wakes up, something about the quiet seems to be an ending, as if chaos cannot touch him here. Eventually, long after he awakes to that momentary sense of peace, he realizes that it is only the old lingering sense of discontent making room for something new.

But for now, as the minutes pass, Severus only incrementally becomes more aware of how eerie the stillness is, of the way he seems to expect shouts of bright noise and the echoing slap of running feet to filter in from some yet undefined place beyond the room, but the sounds never come. In the quietude, he catalogues the many colored bottles and spools of bandages tucked away in the glass-front cupboards against the wall and considers what dire circumstances might have brought about his presence in an infirmary. 

It’s a question he finds he can’t answer, though his mind turns it over several times--the first of many. The longer Severus considers, the more he finds he cannot recall-- not where he is nor how he arrived, or why. He finds the only thing he seems to be certain of is his name, though he couldn’t say why that is. As the moments continue to tick by he comes to the conclusion that there is much more to his current predicament still-- such as the realization that he is at the mercy of his hosts, whoever they might be. It’s a thought that sets anxiety twisting through his stomach, much more than the silence.

It’s not until he concedes to sleep, too exhausted in those beginning moments of clarity to give in to his fear, his eyes sinking closed, that he realizes no one has come to check on him.

No one ever comes as Severus continues to recover, managing to stay awake for more than brief moments of bleary circumspection, and he finds that he has several other mysteries to occupy his time as well. His throat, for one, which despite the continuing ache that suggests he has attempted to swallow pure, undiluted dragon’s blood, shows no outward signs of being damaged when he inspects it in a hand mirror. His inability to inspect the inside of his throat might irritate him more, but the question is set aside for the mystery of the mirror.

The mirror appears on the bedside table between one moment and the next, apparently conjured by Severus’ absent wish to look at his injuries, when an examination performed by touch had yielded no result. His wand is nowhere to be found, so he imagines that it must be the work of some great enchantment, set either upon him or perhaps the castle around him that fulfills even the most frivolous of desires, though not always to the best effect.

If he is bored, books appear between one moment and the next, somewhere in his peripheral vision, or a song will burst through the room, from a turntable that only exists when he considers it, but never if he examines it too closely. The books that are provided to him are always ones he finds engaging, delicate spell theory or intricate stories of heroism and suspense, but there are always certain sections of each book that he finds he cannot recall seconds later, no matter how diligently he rereads them. If he tries too hard, the letters of words blur and rearrange themselves in front of his eyes. Strangely, it never seems to diminish his overall enjoyment or understanding of whatever he’s reading.

Bodily needs are answered in much the same way, met between one moment and the next if they pass through his thoughts. Fires appear in the grates if he finds himself cold, though they don’t always seem to produce any heat. Food that looks as though it belongs to the table of an olden king--picturesque and brightly appealing, neatly arranged on delicate china-- appears regularly, despite his lack of appetite. 

At first Severus forces himself to eat, thinking he will need to keep up his strength, but he finds the meals strangely bland and unappetizing. The taste and smell of each food seems oddly faint, as if he is remembering them rather than experiencing them, and the texture always seems odd. He finds himself eating less and less, until he realizes that days have passed and he hasn’t eaten a single bite, food appearing and vanishing between one moment and the next when it escapes his notice. He never seems to suffer any ill-effects, never finds himself hungry or dizzy, never notices any drop in his strength or his weight.

Alternatively,-- _maddeningly_ \-- Severus finds he always feels a little thirsty no matter how much he seems to drink. The thirst doesn’t seem to grow if he _doesn’t_ drink, however, and he soon gives up liquids as well. Eventually he realizes that the meals only seem to appear when he happens to think he ought be eating, as if whatever force responsible for providing for him is responding to some expectation of what _should_ be just as much as it is responding to his whims.

~

The little mysteries of his circumstance build up into larger ones and become a weighty ball of unease inside of him, but it isn’t until he has recovered enough that whole days begin to stretch out before him-- _one, two, three_ \--that he finally feels well enough to begin to explore the castle.

He half expects to find himself locked in the infirmary, but when he stiffly makes his way to the door he is pleasantly surprised that it swings open easily at his touch. He considers that perhaps his enforced isolation is some form of quarantine, rather than imprisonment, though the reasoning seems weak--no healer would let a patient decide the terms of their convalescence, surely. Particularly not in cases of contagious disease, and it isn’t as if he’d found any evidence of another person in the infirmary at all, healer or otherwise. Still, as he pushes open the door and takes a few shaky steps into the hallway, he hopes that there is some explanation waiting for him beyond the small world of what he’s come to think of as his room.

There isn’t.

Severus spends his days methodically searching empty rooms, from the shadowy winding halls of the dungeon to the top of each spindly tower, and finds nothing more than the languishing splendor of places once well-loved, now abandoned to the vagaries of time and neglect. There is no true evidence that any person other than himself has ever walked these stone corridors and that knowledge sits askew in his chest, a knot of _wrongness_ , as he walks along grand hallways, trying to convince himself that the whispering in the gloomy passages ahead of him is only the breeze blowing through the stones of the old place. Never mind how much it sounds like the chatter of voices and laughter and a young girl calling out his name. 

No matter how quietly he walks, how quickly he turns the corner to try and catch anyone hidden in the shadows, he never finds anything more than wind. The silence presses against him like a physical weight and some days he finds he can’t catch his breath.

Time stretches out until Severus loses track of its passing. He learns each twisting turn of the castle, always convinced that something is hidden beyond his reach. Madness seems constantly, alarmingly close-- _always_. 

He finds that if he sits and watches the fire, it burns in the same exact way every time--each crackle and snap, each collapse of each log, all timed and executed identically to the fire that came before it. He sticks his hands into the flames and finds that they don’t burn. He remembers food and how it should taste, remembers hunger and how it should hollow his belly. When the beautifully plated meal inevitably appears at his elbow, Severus throws it at the wall, craving the disaster of mess and disorder, and he howls in despair when it vanishes before impact.

At night he dreams of darkness and the muted sound of voices that do not reach him. He opens his mouth to shout for help and finds he has no voice.

In the day he learns himself-- not whatever came before, but the things that are irrevocably unchangeable--fear, hate, anger, greed, jealousy. His thoughts spin into webs of ‘what ifs.’ He considers how monstrous he must be, condemned to this barren existence, and tries to ignore how, in the very deepest parts of himself, he just feels small.

The castle is empty.

The castle is empty, _until it isn’t_.

~

It begins as a dream, words spoken out into a dark room. For the first time, Severus can clearly hear what’s being said. Try as he might, Severus still can’t see the speaker or answer, but he decides that he’s not particularly inclined to, as most of what is said is irritatingly nonsensical. If Severus had anything to say at all, it would be to tell the voice to be silent, that if they’re going to waste their breath they might as well not bother speaking. Except it’s a lie. 

It’s been so long since he’s heard any voice other than his own that he finds more than a little pleasure in listening to the husky warmth of the tones and the curious depth of emotion in the words despite the worrying puzzle they carry. Severus is reminded again of how much he detests not knowing, but he’s been alone for so long that it almost seems inconsequential that the voice doesn’t make sense. Perhaps it’s just as well that he can’t say anything back.

“ _It’s been a long time. It’s been-- It’s been years, you stubborn bastard. Some kind of miracle this is, when the only thing to be said is you can breathe on your own.” A quick huff of laughter that seems almost defeated. “The Muggles-- Well, I suppose you wouldn’t thank me for thinking like a Muggle, but I wonder if it isn’t a kindness on their part, when nothing can be done. It isn’t living, you know. ‘Mione looked horrified when I brought it up with her, but she’s always been tenderhearted. You might have guessed, after the fiasco with the house-elves. I wonder if you did, though. I imagine you had more important things to worry about. I doubt you would have related, in any case. More pragmatic, you. And that’s what got us through, isn’t it?_ ”

The dream and the voice come again and again in the next days and Severus finds himself unsettled each time he wakes. He finally realizes that he isn’t dreaming of a conversation, but rather some sort of monologue, one that he has no frame of reference for, which doesn’t make anything easier to understand, but at least the realization helps him put aside the need to try and interact. Not so easily put aside is the eerie sensation of being watched, though he can’t pinpoint where it comes from, or that it isn’t anything more than a product of his imagination, which has been surprisingly active since the dreams began. Sometimes it seems as if he’s speaking to Severus, but for the most part his audience seems wider, undefined. Certainly he’s never heard his name pass the speaker’s lips.

“ _No one understands why I keep coming back here. Some days I’m not so sure, either. I owe you something, we both know that. You certainly haven’t made it easy, though, have you?” Again, that humorless laugh that’s become so familiar to Severus. It sounds wrong, he thinks. Certainly a voice like this, young and gentle, shouldn’t sound so achingly weary. “I can just hear you now,” the voice affects a cold drawl, “‘not everyone is interested in pandering to your celebrity, Potter.’ Never mind that even I’m not interested in my so-called celebrity. I always wondered about that, how much of it you actually believed. I suppose I won’t ever get the chance to ask, now. Doubt my train out of King’s Cross has much to do with yours, I imagine you’d be rather cross if it did._

_“It’s funny, isn’t it? You had the answer all along, just like always. If I’d ever bothered to just look or listen…,” the voice trails off and Severus knows that the monologue has become wholly internal, that it will continue in a moment or two, the speaker having made yet another leap forward that he will find impossible to follow. “Hermione thinks it’s quite romantic, if tragic that you never used it. She’s in awe of the technical skill too, of course. I suppose that’s why you made it at all, for the challenge. She’d be appalled, if she knew what I did. You...well, as much as I want to say it’s because I owe you… you’d know, wouldn’t you? It’s because I’m selfish. You always knew the worst of me, even when I didn’t want to admit it._

_“It won’t hurt. I can tell you that much, at least. I did my research, can you believe it? I started studying as soon as I found it, told myself I’d give it another year while I made sure I knew everything I possibly could. It’s not like we didn’t have plenty of time. Everything I read said it’s like falling asleep, which wasn’t much of a change, but there isn’t much about what happens at the end. The best account I had said the sleeper simply ceases. At least it’s an end, instead of an endless sort of in-between. And I don’t suppose you are aware, but the seizures stopped afterwards. Small mercies, eh?_

_“I suppose that’s why I’m here. Soon enough I won’t be able to be here,” the voice wavers for a moment and Severus feels that inevitable, indescribable clench of something inside of him that has occurred each time he’s found himself helpless since he’s awoken. Because for all the confusing rambling that’s gone on throughout these dreams, this one has a purpose--it’s a goodbye._

_His speaker--Potter, he calls himself that often enough whenever he switches to that mocking tone of his, though something about the name sits ill in the pit of Severus’ stomach--is speaking of what he can only assume is impending death and Severus rails against the unfairness of it, that he will be alone again, that his speaker would be so cruel as to take his own life, but hasn’t he heard it all along, the exhaustion in his voice when he speaks in Severus’ dreams? For the first time in months Severus opens his mouth to try and speak, despairing when nothing happens, just the same as every other time he’s tried._

_“I hope, whatever else happens, that you’ll forgive me, Professor. It’s selfish, but I can’t stand the suffering any longer. You deserve more than this.” The voice is determined now, the speaker obviously resolute in his decision, and Severus can feel tears of anger burning against his eyelids, knowing he will be completely alone once more, wandering castle hallways and slowly losing the fight against madness._

_Don’t go, he wants to beg, finding himself just as selfish in wanting the voice’s continued presence as the speaker is in his determination to leave. He mouths the words, but the silence stretches the darkness of his dream deepens and just when Severus is about to give up his last tenuous breath of hope--soft warmth presses to his lips and spreads through his body as the dream fades into the ether of sleep._

When he wakes, a second or an eternity later, blinking groggily up at the infirmary ceiling, Severus is surprised to find that the feeling of being watched that always follows his dreams has not diminished and he wonders if he should take some small comfort in that, wonders if perhaps his speaker was not as resolved to suicide as Severus had feared. He finds he is not much given to hope--if he ever had been, it’s a trait that has been driven out of him by his time in the castle--but he cannot help thinking of that warm press to his lips, the feeling of it lingering even now. 

In a fit of whimsy he reaches up to trace his fingertips against his mouth. He doesn’t think he is the type of person to care what others think about him, but even if he were there is no one to see him acting foolishly, so why shouldn’t he indulge in the impulse? Or so he thinks, until a rough, gravelly voice emerges from his left.

“You’re _awake_." 

The sound of surprise that he makes may be a shriek, but there is no force in heaven or earth that will make Severus admit to such a thing. Nor will he ever admit to the wild, undignified scramble from his bed when he turns to confront the source of that voice, or to the way his stomach plummets in fear at the sight that greets him. He thinks, inanely, that if he did ever admit it that no one could blame him for such a reaction--a nightmare made flesh stands at his bedside. 

The creature--for there is no other way to describe it--is not terrifying as much as it is gruesome, its features unnatural and twisted together. Severus can count the characteristics of at least four different animals at a glance and fights the urge to give in to hysterical laughter. He’s been wishing for some form of company for so long and now that he finally has it, it’s quite likely he’s going to be eaten, rather than gain any sort of benefit.

In his panic to get away, Severus finds himself tangled in the bedsheets and he trips, staggering forward until he’s put the lengths of two other beds between them. His gaze darts to the doorway on the other side of the creature and he wonders if he would make it out of the room, wonders if there’s any point, when there is no place in the castle he could reasonably escape to and he’s yet to find an exit from the castle itself.

“You’re awake,” the words repeat themselves dumbly and it occurs to Severus that the creature, the _beast_ , is the one who speaks them and that the odd, animalistic expression on its face seems almost as surprised as Severus feels. He considers the door half-heartedly once more before deciding that the reasonable thing to do is to try and reason with it, since it’s capable of speech. At the very least he might get a decent conversation before he’s torn to shreds by a wild animal.

“Who are you? How did you get here?” Severus is pleased that his voice comes out much more commanding than he feels, with his heart fluttering against his breastbone in fear. Apparently he’s calm under pressure--it’s a small consolation, when he’s facing down almost certain doom. Not for the first time he desperately wishes for his wand because he’s never managed to get his wandless magic work outside of the larger magic at work here. And the castle’s enchantment would only placidly provide any protection he wished for, likely at the beast’s side rather than his own. At least he’ll die with dignity, insofar as someone being ripped to pieces can.

“You--You’re awake,” the same words again, haltingly this time, strangely wondering. Severus’ hope for an intelligent conversation to precede his dismemberment dies quickly as the beast takes a shuffling step forward.

“Stay there! Don’t come any closer!” His voice fails him this time, wavering as the creature advances again and he can’t help but cede his own ground, stumbling a few steps further backward. Perhaps he’s a coward after all, but surely it would be difficult for anyone to cast aspersions, when faced with what he’s looking at, the awful spectre the creature presents--it stands upright like a man, but misshapen, joints set oddly awry, like a dog or a cat balancing on its hind legs, and it is almost entirely covered in black fur, a leonine face and the sharp spike of antlers looming upwards from the crown of its head, offset by the strangeness of a lion’s mane that somehow becomes a ruff of inky feathers around its throat. 

But for the flash of teeth at its mouth and the glitter of scale and claws at its hands, the creature might seem harmless, if unnatural. But it’s difficult to mistake the length of those teeth and tearing nails, even from the distance Severus has put between them, nor the white scar that bisects the creature’s face, splitting across it like lightning in the night sky and speaking of experience in pain and blood. Every instinct in him is screaming at him to run, though he knows there is no surer path to death, than to flee from a predator. “Who-- _what_ are you?” He manages to wrest his voice back under his control again, but only just.

The beast’s motion stumbles to a halt and it tips his head in what can only be confusion, its mouth pulling into a strange sort of snarl before it speaks again. “You...you don’t remember me?”

A wild laugh escapes Severus at the question, because if he were going to remember _anything_ about his life leading up to his seclusion in the castle, surely this creature would be the top of the list. “Should I? How could I forget something like you?” The words spill out of his mouth before he can consider the potential ramifications of insulting the beast and he winces slightly, taking another step back, just in case.

The creature blinks, then blinks again, a distressingly human gesture. “Some _thing_ like me?” The guttural voice holds an edge of annoyance now and Severus finds himself wondering about the beast’s intelligence. Their conversation has consisted largely of repetition, though Severus decides to hold his peace on the topic, discretion being the better part of valor, when one is considering the aptitude of something easily able to bring about their messy death.

Severus doesn’t bother with the clarification the creature seems to want--what would be the point when the answer is self-evident and he still has his own questions that have gone ignored.

“Where did you come from? There’s no one else in the castle, I’ve _looked_. You had to have come from outside somehow.” 

It’s the only thing that makes sense. Severus has long suspected that there are rooms in the castle that he can’t access, the dimensions of the hallways and common areas make that obvious enough, but surely he hasn’t missed another being living in the castle, not when he’s searched high and low, desperate for company.

“No one else in the--” the creature cuts itself off with a snort and straightens suddenly, its shoulders pulling back with resolve as it speaks again, voice surprisingly gentle despite the gravel of it. “Listen, I think you’re confused. It’s perfectly understandable, but why don’t you come and sit down? Madam Pomfrey will come and explain what’s happened in a moment, I’m sure.” The soothing tone has Severus gritting his teeth in annoyance and he finds himself straightening up to his full height as well, meeting the creature’s gaze and opening his mouth to let it know just what he thinks of being patronized, the threat of being mauled be damned. 

When the beast reaches out towards him, however, he can’t help but glance down at that clawed hand, a shiver racing up his spine. He can only assume the creature must look down as well, because all of a sudden it’s stumbling back and sinking heavily onto the end of Severus’ bed, gaze locked onto the hand now being held up in front of its face.

“Oh,” the creature’s voice is small and quiet. “Something has gone dreadfully wrong.”

Moments stretch between them, where Severus waits for the creature to do something and it, in turn, seems content to sit where it is and consider whatever has apparently gone ‘dreadfully wrong.’ The silence is interminable and Severus fights the urge to fidget, watching and waiting, with not the first idea of what to expect now. He starts in surprise when the beast finally speaks again, though he manages to avoid repeating the unseemly display that his surprise had taken when he’d woken up.

“Do you...is there a mirror I could use?” The beast’s voice is still quiet and there is a niggling familiarity to it that Severus cannot place. It’s frustrating, because there is little enough that is familiar to him, but he sets it aside for the moment to silently point to the small hand mirror that has materialized beside the beast, the same one that had come to him in the very beginning, by the looks of it.

The beast shows no sign of being surprised by the mirror’s appearance, but picks it up and holds it aloft, inhaling sharply at something it finds in its reflection. The mirror is set aside quickly, the creature apparently not interested in examining the extent of its deformities. “Well. That answers that.”

“I’m certainly glad you’ve got the answers _you_ were looking for, but perhaps you might see fit to _share_ some?” Severus’ tone is sharp, the majority of his fear having faded in the moments when the creature simply sat in stunned disbelief on the end of his bed, rather than attempting to eat him, though he doesn’t press his luck by moving any closer to the beast than he already is. “For instance, who you are and how you arrived here?”

The creature’s nose wrinkles and it somehow manages to convey chagrin, though Severus isn’t certain how it’s possible. “I...I’m not entirely certain.”

“Not certain?” Severus is the one repeating things now, disbelief coloring his tone, because the beast seemed certain enough moments ago, when it had expected his recognition.

The creature ducks its head and reaches up, fingers rifling through its hair, though the motion is aborted with a grimace when those fingers meet with the base of an antler. “Well I was...I was with a...friend, of sorts, and then I was here. With you.” It doesn’t escape Severus that the beast is refusing to meet his gaze now and he scowls, having no intention of letting it evade the question. This creature is the first real clue Severus has had as to what is happening to him and he’ll be damned if he’s going to let it go.

“You seemed to believe I should know you,” he drawls the words skeptically, lifting his arms to fold them against his chest as he surveys the creature. “You seemed certain enough about _that_.”

The beast lifts his head, gaze flicking to meet Severus’ guiltily. “I...thought you were someone else--” The creature breaks off with a huff of laughter and Severus feels that troubling sense of deja vu again. Perhaps he _had_ known this creature from whatever had come before his time in the castle, although that still didn’t explain what was happening _now_. 

“I thought _I_ was someone else,” the beast mutters shaking his head, and Severus wonders if the creature truly thinks he’ll believe such a flimsy excuse. He senses, however, that he’ll get nowhere if he continues to press the issue head-on and decides to change tactics.

“And who might that be? You still haven’t said.” The silence stretches for long enough that Severus thinks that the creature will attempt a clumsy evasion of this question too, before it finally speaks again.

“You may call me...Gryffindor.”

“Gryffindor-- Do you truly expect me to believe that your name is _Gryffindor_?” Severus can’t help the disgust in his tone, annoyed that even in this the creature won’t give him a straightforward answer and considering just what he will have to do to find the answers he wants from the beast.

“Gryffindor is what I am, as much as anything, but I never said it was my name.” The creature sounds entirely too proud about that and Severus can’t help but feel a grudging smidgen of respect at the loophole it’s found. At least until it speaks again. “What should I call you?”

“You won’t tell me your name, but you expect me to give you mine?” Severus spits the question out in annoyance. He feels wrong-footed, knowing that the beast holds the advantage here already, the exact wording of the question escaping him because he has the sinking suspicion that the creature already knows his name without having to ask at all.

The creature’s-- _Gryffindor’s_ \--expression folds into something the conveys a sense of smugness, apparently pleased by having the upper hand, and it shakes its head. “I didn’t ask for your name.”

Severus snorts at that, irritated and certain, now, that the creature knows exactly what he is called, but decides abruptly to play along. If the only thing he can do is work to take back ground he doesn’t know he’s lost, then he will do his best to keep the creature unbalanced while he does it. “Fine, then. Beauty.”

“Wh-what?” _Gryffindor_ blinks at him uncertainly and Severus feels a smirk stretch comfortably across his lips.

“You asked what you should call me-- Beauty. You may call me Beauty. If I must use a pointless name, then so will you.” Severus sneers, feeling, for a brief moment, that he has finally gained the upper hand. Gryffindor blinks owlishly at him for a moment, a curious expression in such a feline face, and then looks down at its clawed hands, opening and closing them into fists several times. The beast seems to be having some silent debate with itself, its spoon-shaped ears twitching up and down, before lifting its head to meet Severus’ gaze again, giving a fearsome sort of grin.

“Very well, then. Beauty.” The words are said with a rumbling growl that sends shivers down his spine and Severus has the sudden, sinking suspicion that he’s never had the upper hand at all.

~

The days pass more quickly, with Gryffindor in the castle, though it takes Severus some time to decide how he feels about that, as the beast continues to be evasive about giving any insight it has into their shared situation. They begin each morning in wary politeness that dissolves into verbal combat by afternoon, at least on Severus’ part, more often than not. Nothing at all seems to faze the creature, not the way their needs are half-heartedly met through shoddy spellwork, not the way they don’t need food or drink to survive, nor even the way Severus refuses to refer to Gryffindor by name, instead digging in nastily with “Beast.” 

Severus himself is surprised by the level of aggression that bubbles up in his chest at the bemused acceptance that Gryffindor seems to greet every situation with. It’s perhaps the only facet of his own personality Severus couldn’t have deduced for himself, when he spent so much time wishing for company: how much he might find that same company irritating. His irritation is tempered by the moments he finds himself quietly watching Gryffindor, drinking in his vibrant presence.

It doesn’t stop him from lashing out, endlessly searching for some weakness that he can press to his advantage.

This day is no different, Gryffindor’s questions about the castle as Severus leads him through now familiar corridors--questions the creature clearly knows the answers to already, if the lack of curiosity in its voice is any indicator--propelling him quickly into annoyance.

“You _know_ something!” Severus snarls the words apropos of nothing, as they make their way to the library. Gryffindor is asking him about a clutter of armor leaning against a wall outside of the library and he doesn’t know which infuriates him more-- Gryffindor’s patent refusal to admit to any pertinent knowledge or the amusement the creature seems to gain from his frustration at the fact.

“I know many things.” Gryffindor does not seem at all perturbed by his sudden anger, but then his temper has made itself apparent many times since the creature’s arrival. Severus is not certain he would have said an animal was capable of smirking before this moment, but Gryffindor certainly seems to manage it. “Though I wouldn’t have thought you believed it.” The beast’s voice is dry, no doubt recalling the many times Severus has been provoked into insulting its intelligence over the past days.

“Something you’re keeping from me,” Severus seethes. “You play ignorant very well, it must amuse you to think I am too stupid to realize it!”

For the very first time, the beast seems to feel some sort of shame about his secrecy, its ears drooping downwards. If Severus had known pointing out the creature’s sadistic tendencies would work, he would have done so much sooner. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Severus blinks at the soft statement, startled by the way it dissolves the burgeoning fight between them. It feels oddly like a concession on Gryffindor’s part and Severus isn’t sure what to make of it, he had been expecting them to begin another heated row and now he feels a bit deflated, as if he now has no reason to begin the argument. Somehow it only serves to make him angrier.

“Don’t you? Do you think I don’t know you’re _lying_ to me? I may not be able to remember anything from the time before here.” Severus raised his hands and gave a wild gesture to encompass the stones around them. “But do you think I cannot observe? Do you think I do not notice the way you anticipate our path down corridors or touch the tapestries with familiarity? That I have not heard you speaking to the portraits as if you expect them to answer back? You will not admit to knowing me, but you cannot deny you know this castle, and yet you persist in this pretence of ignorance!”

“Ho, there! Quiet down! Some of us are trying to sleep!” A small voice emerges from further down the corridor and Severus spins in shock, intending to locate its source, appalled by the thought that he has somehow overlooked yet another presence in the castle after all this time. He doesn’t expect the sharp pain in his temple or the sudden blackness that swallows him up instead, but maybe he should have-- it’s not as if good luck has ever shown him even passing acquaintance.

Severus wakes to the quiet crackling of a fire and a surprising lack of pain in his head. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to work out what happened. He recalls Gryffindor and his anger, he recalls the voice, but afterwards there is nothing. It’s a sad commentary on his life, Severus thinks, that he is becoming so entirely familiar with waking up to such blankness of memory.

“I know you’re not sleeping. You stopped snoring about five minutes ago.”

“I beg your pardon, I do _not_ \--” the words die in his mouth as his eyes pop open; the room around them is decorated richly in red and gold and it’s entirely unfamiliar to Severus. It’s just as well, considering he has no idea if he snores in his sleep or not. “Where are we?” For a moment the idea that they have left the castle overwhelms him, hope bubbling in his chest.

“The north tower. It was closer than the infirmary, after you hit your head.” Severus’ hopes come crashing back down to earth and he looks up to the opulent bed hangings, wondering for a moment at the lushness of the scarlet brocade. 

“I have been through every inch of the castle, through all the halls and corridors, up to the top of each tower and down to the furthest depths of the dungeons, and yet I have no recollection of any room with such a vile color scheme.” He keeps his voice as even as he can manage, though the urge to shout and throw things lingers in the back of his mind.

“No, I suppose not. You wouldn’t have been able to get in, with the portraits asleep.” Gryffindor sighs and Severus looks over in time to see furry shoulders move in a shrug.

“With the portraits asleep…” Severus repeats the words slowly, weighing them out on his tongue as if that will help them make sense.

“You don’t remember the portraits, do you?” It’s not truly a question, for all that Gryffindor’s words are filled with disbelief. Severus looks away, fingers idly picking at the bedspread beneath him.

“I thought we’d established very early on, that I don’t remember much of anything,” Severus snaps sharply--the memory of that bitter discussion was fresh enough.

“I...I’m sorry, Beauty.”

Severus snarls, jerking himself upward, intent on moving out of the bed. “After everything, you’re still mocking me!” Severus ignores the strident voice in his mind that points out he’s hardly innocent of the same, when he throws the word ‘beast’ at Gryffindor as if it’s a weapon-spell.

“Mock-- _mocking you_?” Gryffindor shifts backwards in surprise as Severus gains his feet, hands rising in a gesture of placation. “What do you--how am I mocking you?” His mental voice points out Gryffindor’s kindness in not returning the accusation.

“Beauty! As if you don’t know my name, as if you don’t know that I am the very antithesis of the word! I chose it in an attempt to press you into admitting you knew me, yet you choose to throw it cruelly back in my face, again and again. Are you pleased to know you have bested me?” The words rip themselves from Severus’ throat and he takes in a deep breath, certain there is more to say, but when he exhales it only comes out as a tired sigh. 

“You have bested me,” he says again, weariness sinking into his bones like a weight. He lowers himself down to sit on the edge of the bed and presses his hands against his face, as he can somehow physically hold back the despair that threatens to overwhelm him. “You win. Whatever punishment or torment you are here to mete out for my sins, I will accept it.” It is still the only explanation Severus has for this torment, that he has done something to deserve this purgatory of emptiness, no matter that he cannot remember it. 

A surprisingly warm hand curls itself around his wrist and gently tugs until he lowers his hands. Severus forces himself to look up and meet Gryffindor’s gaze, noticing, for what he tells himself is the first time, the glittering green of his eyes.

“I am not your jailer, and I am not here to punish you,” the beast says gently, releasing Severus’ arm and moving closer to carefully settle beside him on the edge of the bed. Severus shifts to accommodate him, heart thumping in his chest at their proximity and the sheer amount of space Gryffindor takes up. He is reminded again of how frail he is, in relation to a creature such as this.

“No?” Severus asks bitterly, deciding that even if he provokes the beast into a rage, at least it will be a quick end. “You’ve certainly done a fair enough job of it so far.”

“I suppose that’s true enough, though it was never my intention. The truth is...the truth is I _don’t_ know how we both came to be here.” Severus makes a wordless sound of outrage, finding his anger anew at the words, and Gryffindor holds up a hand. “Wait-- I mean, you’re right. I know more than I’ve told you, that’s true enough. But I don’t know everything. I have some ideas, some speculations, but I don’t know how much of it is safe to tell you.”

“So you decided to tell me nothing and mock me, instead of explaining the situation?”

Gryffindor winces and rubs his hands together nervously, the scales on his fingers sliding against each other with a soft whisper of sound. “I never meant to mock you. I only thought it fair that I not use your name, when I couldn’t give you my own. It seemed like you chose Beauty to mock _me_ , when I look like _this_. It’s not as if it would be the first time, hm?”

Guilt needles at him surprisingly sharply and it occurs to Severus, suddenly, that he’s been so focused on finding out his own secrets that he never bothered to question what other secrets Gryffindor might hold. “You haven’t always looked like this?”

Gryffindor’s head tilts at the question and Severus has to duck, narrowly avoiding the sweep of an antler. A quiet curse cuts the air between them and the beast gives a grimace, leaning back to put a safer distance between them. “I’m not sure I should answer that.”

Frustration is a living thing within Severus’ chest. “Is there anything you _can_ answer?”

“I think...I can tell you that you’re right. We knew each other before we came here. Hogwarts--the castle was my home for many years, and yours for longer still. And now we are here again…” Gryffindor trails off with a weary huff of laughter, voice softening to something like a whisper, for a moment losing its gravel. “Maybe I’m the one being punished.”

It almost seems as if Severus isn’t meant to hear the words, but he does, the world around him spinning and resolving itself anew in his mind as he recognizes that voice-- _that voice_ , the voice that plagued his dreams for so long, the niggling familiarity that’s been plaguing Severus since Gryffindor’s arrival suddenly making sense-- it isn’t that they had known each other before, it’s that Severus had known him _afterwards_. Severus recalls the last dream and the goodbye that he hadn’t wanted, a new fear occurring to him.

“Are we dead?” The words spill out of him before Severus can contain them and he finds himself waiting for Gryffindor’s answer anxiously.

“What?” Gryffindor blinks, his--Severus can no longer deny his humanity, knowing what he knows now--face crumpling into that odd expression of confusion that he has. “No, of course not.”

“You seem certain. How can you know that this isn’t some hellish version of the afterlife?” It seems to Severus that being dead would explain quite a lot of things about this existence.

Gryffindor’s eyes crinkle in amusement and he gives a rumbling laugh. “I consider myself something of an expert in the afterlife. I visited once and decided not to stay. Don’t worry, for the moment we’re both quite alive.”

Severus finds he isn’t reassured by the explanation. “So you say.”

Gryffindor laughs again and shrugs slightly. “So I say. We’re not dead, we’re just...out of place.”

“Out of place? What, exactly, is that supposed to mean? It’s not as if we’re broken toys, to be set aside and lost!” Severus growls, finding himself annoyed that every time he thinks he is making headway on figuring out what’s going on, Gryffindor throws a handful of bubotuber pus into the mix and he finds himself wretchedly adrift again.

“No, we aren’t,” Gryffindor sounds exasperated now, amusement fading from his voice, and Severus thinks it serves him right, when he manages to be so exasperating himself. “But we’re...we’ve been isolated here, so to speak, until we can break the enchantment.”

“It’s a curse, then-- you don’t think that’s something you might have mentioned to begin with? If we can’t break the curse we’ll never be able to leave this damn castle!” Severus finds, suddenly, that he is on his feet and shouting, incensed by the idea that Gryffindor has had at least some idea of how to free them the entire time.

In a blink, Gryffindor is on his feet as well, leaning dangerously into Severus’ personal space. “It’s not a curse, it’s not even a true enchantment!” The words are almost a roar and Severus falls silent in surprise. “It’s--” Gryffindor gives a huffing sigh and Severus watches his shoulders slump and his ears droop in something like defeat. “It’s my fault.”

Severus feels an icy cold wash through him at the words. “Your fault? You trapped me here?” His own voice seems to come from far away, echoing oddly in his ears.

“What?!” Gryffindor’s head snaps back up in surprise. “No, of course not! I was trying to--to _free_ you and something went _wrong_. Somehow I ended up here with you, instead.” The anguish in those words melts through the ice that has taken over his veins and Severus slowly relaxes as he considers what he’s been told.

“Well.” Severus clears his throat carefully and hesitantly, pointedly meets the green gaze that stands even with his own. “I suppose we’ll have to work together to escape, then.”

Gryffindor’s eyes widen and his gaze darts away quickly. If it were anyone else, if there _were_ anyone else, Severus would think they were embarrassed, but the black fur that covers his companion gives away no secrets, so he cannot say what causes him to look away. He can say with absolute certainty, however, that he would not expect the words that come next from _anyone_ , much less Gryffindor.

“I know--” He breaks off with a shake of his head, his ears flapping up and down, antlers dipping dangerously close to Severus once more. “Sorry, but-- I have to ask... will you marry me?”

“ _No_!” The word bursts out of him, a visceral reaction, before Severus can even find it within himself to be horrified at the question. He stares at Gryffindor in shock, trying work out what sign he possibly could have missed that would lead to such a question.

Gryffindor, for his part, doesn’t seem offended by Severus’ vehement denial, just gives another small shake of his head and shrugs. “No, I didn’t think so.” His eyes crinkle in a slight smile and he reaches out, patting Severus’ shoulder as if he’s the one in need of consolation--which he very well might be, although he would never say so. “Why don’t we go to the library now? Maybe we can both find some answers there.”

He carefully turns away from Severus, making his way to the door of the room. Dumbly, shock still fizzling through him, Severus follows, because what else can he do?

~

With the awakening of the portraits, the castle becomes something different, the low murmur of conversation following Severus and Gryffindor as they make their way through corridors. Ghosts finally begin to make an appearance as well, drifting through rooms, silent and insubstantial. The first time Severus sees one he stills in surprise, taking in the silvery woman that drifts through the table in front of him. She is beautiful: a straight, Grecian nose and generous, smiling lips, with long hair spilling over her shoulders, but her eyes are cold as she makes her way past Severus. Gryffindor looks almost stricken, when Severus glances over at him, his gaze following the ghost as it exits the room.

“Did you know her?” Gryffindor had described the castle as it should be some nights ago-- the school, its dorms and classrooms full of children, the feasts and the laughter and the sense of _belonging_. It’s something Severus can’t imagine, but as the castle seems to awaken around them it at least loosens that sense of _wrongness_ that has been settled in his chest for so long. Gryffindor had also told him about the ghosts, or Severus might have found himself a lot more startled by this one’s sudden appearance. 

Gryffindor blinks at the question, then blinks again and takes a shuddering breath, tearing his gaze away from the wall that the ghost passed through. “No.” His voice thick with emotion. “No, I never did.” 

For a moment, Severus considers pressing the question. Clearly there is more to the story than he’s being told, a stranger’s ghost shouldn’t engender such a response. He opens his mouth to ask and then he notices the tension running through Gryffindor’s shoulders. They have spent days in the library now, sorting through oddly fuzzy theories and rituals that somehow teach them nothing new, no matter how many books they read. It’s a task made more difficult by the fact that some titles contain nothing but blank pages and others are incomprehensible to Severus, but perfectly clear to Gryffindor and vice versa. 

It’s tedious and time consuming and exhausting and they have to take frequent breaks. When they aren’t in the library they explore more of the castle together, Gryffindor’s knowledge leading them to hidden rooms--or at least rooms that have been hidden to Severus until now. And slowly, slowly they have begun to learn each other, as well. 

It’s a heavily weighted exchange. For every piece of himself that Gryffindor offers to Severus, Severus can return nothing. He has no amusing stories of his school days, no knowledge of friends that are waiting worriedly for his return. He has nothing but his bitterness and temper, nothing more than an endless stretch of days and an empty castle. And he has Gryffindor, who has a life and friends that he left behind; who has a past and a future; who has kindness and patience and laughter. Severus has none of these things and doubts he would know how to offer them if he did, but for some reason Gryffindor continues, each night before they sleep, to offer it all to Severus.

Each night he asks, his voice low and gravelly, “Will you marry me?” and each night Severus denies him, panic clawing at his throat. Gryffindor never presses and so Severus bites back his questions. He doesn’t ask about the first ghost, nor the second that trails its way through the library a few moments later--an old man with half-moon spectacles and eyes that are lit with happiness that causes an outright shudder to run through Gryffindor’s frame. He closes his mouth, looks down at the book full of blurry letters in front of him, and sighs.

“This is getting us nowhere.” Maybe, Severus thinks, it’s time to consider that they may never make it out of the castle.

~

When Gryffindor asks him again that night, for the first time Severus finds himself pausing, the word ‘no’ caught in his throat for an infinity of seconds before it croaks out of him. Never mind that Gryffindor isn’t quite human, if he ever was-- what could Severus possibly offer him?

He lies awake in the dark for a long time, listening to Gryffindor’s soft growling snores from the other side of the room. There is an abundance of empty bedrooms throughout the castle, rooms that offer wide, comfortable beds with an abundance of privacy, but by some unspoken agreement, he and Gryffindor return to the infirmary. He wonders why that is. He wonders what Gryffindor is thinking, each time he asks for Severus’ hand in marriage.

He falls asleep at some point, he must, because between one blink of his eyelids and the next the fire has burned down to a barely existent glow and a heavy arm is curled around his waist. It takes him a moment to realize that the arm is connected to the solid warmth at his back and Severus can’t even muster surprise that someone has invaded his bed. Instead he finds all of his attention on what must have woken him, the ghostly glow that shimmers throughout the infirmary emanating from the silvery doe that stands at the foot of his bed.

Severus tries to lurch forward out of the bed, knowing, _knowing_ , beyond a shadow of a doubt that the doe holds all the answers he’s missing, that if he can simply touch her he will be whole again. The arm around his waist tightens suddenly, becomes a band of steel, and Severus is trapped. A choked sob catches in his throat and he squirms against the restraint, does his very best to wriggle free.

“Severus. _Severus_.” The voice is gentle and familiar, warm breath gusting over the nape of his neck. “She is a ghost. Starlight and moondust and nothing of substance. You can call her to you like a memory, but chasing ghosts-- Severus, you have to _live_.” 

The words are whispered into his hair as Severus continues to struggle, the sob finally breaking free of his throat as he watches the doe dip her head and fade into darkness.

“No-- _no_!” Tears sting his eyes and he manages to pull an arm free, reaching out into the darkness as if it can bring her back. “Please,” he whispers brokenly, though he isn’t certain what it is he’s asking for. “I’m so _tired_.” The weight had lessened, when Gryffindor had suddenly shown up by his bedside, but it was still there, waiting for a moment of weakness.

“Shhh,” the voice is back again, the arms around Severus loosening just enough to shift him and pull him in close to a bare chest. “It will be okay, Severus. I promise.” A hand slides down the length of his spine, lips press gently against his hairline, and Severus closes his eyes and surrenders.

When he wakes in the morning he is alone in his bed, Gryffindor’s snores still rumbling away from three beds down, and there is nothing but the stickiness of dried tear trails on his cheeks to suggest it was anything more than a dream.

~

The days stretch out before him again; in the daylight there is Gryffindor and his kindness, and in the nighttime there is the question and the doe, again and again. His days are light and his nights are confusion, until Severus finds he can no longer tell Gryffindor, “No.” His answer goes from a word to a ragged whisper and then nothing-- all he can manage is a tight shake of his head. That night, when the doe comes to the infirmary, when Severus wakes to her silvery glow he doesn’t attempt to get to her at all. His tears dried up nights ago and now he finds that the promise of her presence has faded completely. He turns in the warm embrace of his companion, instead, tucks his face against a smooth throat and drifts back into sleep.

When the morning comes, Gryffindor is sitting in the chair by his bedside. For a moment he’s thrown back to the first morning that Gryffindor had arrived and he blinks, disoriented. His antlers look almost golden in the morning light. “You’re awake early.”

Gryffindor smiles with his eyes and Severus feels the corner of his mouth lift in return, pleased that he’s somehow responsible for that smile, even though he doesn’t know exactly _how_. “I was waiting for you. There’s a room you need to see.” 

At that, Severus’ expression falters, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I thought we had been through all the rooms now.” They had spent enough time exploring new places in the castle that Severus had begun to think there was an endless supply of them, though Gryffindor had mentioned at one point that there were only a hundred or so.

“The room was waiting for you too.” The leonid face begins to look even more pleased than Severus had realized was possible and, in contrast, worry begins to knot in his stomach. The battle is lost, however, when Gryffindor stands and holds out a hand. 

Severus knows he can no longer deny him anything.

He allows himself to be led out of the infirmary in his nightshirt, pulled through the corridors and down into the dungeons by the warm hand tucked in his own. They go deeper into the maze of the dungeons than Severus has ventured since his first lonely explorations of the castle, moving steadily until Gryffindor pulls him to a stop in front of a large landscape, painted in varying shades of green. The most prominent one matches the color of Gryffindor’s eyes precisely.

“It won’t open for me,” he says, when moments have passed and all Severus does is stare at the painting. Severus isn’t sure that he wants it to open for him, but he knows that it’s expected of him, that after everything it would be beyond cowardly for him to run away now. He tightens his grip on Gryffindor’s hand, holding in a sigh of relief when he doesn’t protest Severus’ grip. _I’m afraid_ , he thinks, and he presses his palm carefully against the gilt frame. The painting swings open without even a whisper of sound and Severus leads the way into a dimly lit room.

He doesn’t know what he expected, some demon lurching out of the shadows, perhaps, but it’s a room, simply decorated in shades of blue and warm brown. A battered couch sits in front of the fireplace, a blanket thrown across its back invitingly. There is a desk tucked into a corner with messy stacks of blank parchment tumbling over its top and the open door beside it shows a tantalizing glimpse of a large bed and comfortable looking quilt.

The only thing that seems out of place is the tall table that sits in the center of the room, holding up a shallow basin that seems to be filled with liquid light. “What is it?”

Gryffindor startles beside him, gaze snapping away from the basin and guiltily over to Severus’ face. It is a small comfort, but he can’t help but find it amusing how someone as arguably fearsome as Gryffindor could manage to look like a naughty school child being caught out. Severus raises an expectant eyebrow and Gryffindor ducks his head.

“It’s a Pensieve. They store memories.” Gryffindor’s hand releases his and Severus desperately wants it back, but he understands that this task is his alone.

“What do I do?” He can barely force the question past his lips, wondering why this moment has come so late, why he must regain his sins when he no longer wants them, when he has finally found what he wants to enjoy in his life.

“Lean over the bowl. The Pensieve should do the rest.” Severus nods stiffly, lurches forward. He feels drunk, or at least how he imagines drunk should feel like, the world spinning violently around him. He’ll know soon enough if he’s right.

He leans over the Pensieve and is _consumed_.

He emerges--seconds, minutes, days, months, _years_ later. He emerges trembling and gasping for breath, reliving the sensation of his throat torn open, of poison burning a course through his veins. He had known. He had always known, whatever other secrets his mind was hiding from him, that it wouldn’t be pleasant. It was so much worse than he had ever imagined, he thinks, Charity Burbage’s dying scream still echoing in his ears, killing curse green flashing behind his eyelids as Albus falls again and again.

“Severus?” The voice that comes from behind him has lost its growl, its gravel. It’s the voice that has spent so many nights whispering comfort into his ears.

It all makes sense now. The empty castle, the dreams, Gryffindor--no, _Harry_. Harry _bloody Potter_. He understands, now, what Harry has done to him-- to them _both_. He wonders if Harry understands what he has condemned himself to. Severus clings to the edge of the table, holding himself upright by sheer force of will. He will not turn around. He _cannot_ turn around.

“Severus, are you all right?” That damnable voice has an edge of fear to it now and Severus’ knees tremble, threatening to drop him to the floor.

“How--,” he breaks off, gives a choked cough to clear his throat. “How can you ask me that?” The anguish is naked and obvious in his voice. He doesn’t understand. “How can you stand to--” Severus releases the table to cover his face and his legs give up their fight to support him. He crumples to the floor with a low moan, curling into himself. 

“Don’t you understand what you’ve done, you _fool_?” Warm hands press themselves against his shoulders and Severus shudders hard at the touch. 

“I didn’t at first.” The hands turn into an embrace, Harry’s chest pressed against his back, and lips at the nape of his neck, continuing to speak, whispering the words into his skin. “I didn’t understand how I could have ended up here with you, when all I was trying to do was-- untether you, I suppose. It was selfish. It’s still selfish. I couldn’t stand to watch you waste away in that bed any longer. I thought it might be a kindness. There didn’t seem to be any chance of you finding your ‘one true love,’ but a painless death? I owed you so much, surely I could give you that.

“The first year and a half, the wound on your throat reopened constantly. Poppy could barely keep you stable. When you finally did heal you suffered from seizures and every time, _every time_ , any healer that examined you would say that if you woke it was likely you would have extensive brain damage.

“That’s when I found the potion. Minerva asked me to help clear out your rooms, when the castle was fully repaired. There was no one but the two of us to take care of it. I didn’t realize what it was at first. I just fancied the label you’d written on it. It seemed wrong to try and keep your potions journals, but a potion… Hermione explained to me just what it was, when she saw it sitting on my mantel. It seemed like the obvious answer and I researched it all first, I spent months in dusty libraries, checking and double checking, following up with every cross-reference.

“So, no, at first, I couldn’t believe that the potion had done what it was meant to. I mean, who would believe it? Harry Potter, soulmate of Severus Snape. I thought something must have gone wrong, I just...didn’t know what. And you were still so...so _you_ , without your memories. Snappish and petty and sarcastic and funny and _brilliant_. And even though I kept making you mad, kept teasing you with what I knew that you didn’t, you didn’t hate me. I didn’t realize how much I wanted you not to hate me.

“And then, suddenly, the day the portraits woke up, it all made sense. I realized what I needed to do. That’s when I asked you the first time, remember?” Severus gives a jerky nod because he does remember now, and that’s the problem.

“Potter--,” his voice croaks out roughly and he swallows hard when Harry makes a broken little sound at the name. He closes his eyes and thinks of all the times he swore to himself that he would never willingly tie himself to another wizard, thinks of all the things Harry unknowingly gave up with a single, chaste kiss-- there is a reason that no one makes the _Integrum_ potion anymore and only half of it is the difficulty; both of them will wake up from this nightmare or neither of them will. Severus thinks of the way Gryffindor could smile with only his eyes and the way Harry had begged him to choose life under the cover of darkness. 

He thinks of the way the word ‘no’ dies in his throat now and carefully uncurls, turning to face the truth he’s been running from all this time. He can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes when his eyes find Harry Potter and not Gryffindor. Not everything has changed-- his eyes are still the same, still Lily’s, though they don’t hold the coldness that Lily’s had, after the end of their friendship, and the scar is Gryffindor’s, an entire strike of lightning, trailing its way over his forehead, across his eyelid and down his cheekbone, not the same small lightning bolt that it had been when Severus had last seen Harry in the Shrieking Shack, when he’d memorized the frightened planes of Lily’s son’s face.

Harry’s nose wrinkles as his thumb rubs over the bottom-most reach of the scar. “The effects of the killing curse are a little more gruesome, the second time around,” he says warily. No doubt he’s heard all manner of comments about the scar, but all Severus can think of is that he sent him to out to die, after everything, after swearing to protect him.

“You’re certain we aren’t dead? It seems to me that being dead would make a lot more sense than the everything you’ve just told me,” Severus says after another long moment, afraid of how easy this all suddenly seems.

“You’re failing to take who I am into account, I think. The more preposterous it seems, the more likely it is to happen to me. Besides, we can’t be dead.” Harry’s eyes smile at him and the corner of Severus’ lip twitches upward helplessly, _hopelessly_.

“No?” Severus asks, leaning in closer when Harry tugs him in.

“No. I still have to ask you-- Will you marry me, Beauty?” Severus’ eyes fall closed. _You have bested me_ , he thinks. 

“Yes,” he whispers against Harry’s lips, and when he opens his eyes again it is to the early morning light in the Hogwarts infirmary and the sight of Harry Potter opening green, _green_ eyes in the bed next to his.

**Author's Note:**

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